


The Adventure of the Rehab Roommate

by Gaedhal



Series: "The Adventure of the Rehab Roommate" [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17617946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaedhal/pseuds/Gaedhal
Summary: John Watson, recently back from Afghanistan, is in rehab for an addiction to painkillers that he acquired after being severely wounded by an IED in Helmand Province. It's there that he meets another addict, the brilliant and infuriating Sherlock Holmes,This is a Ritchie-verse fic, so picture Jude Law as Dr. John Watson and Robert Downey, Jr., as Holmes. It takes place in London in 2009.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives at rehab.

Chapter 1

North London, 2009

 

“I see that you’ve been in Afghanistan.”

Those were the first words he ever spoke to me.

“Who told you that?” 

I’d just arrived in the main unit after my 72 hours in mandatory detox and had as yet told no one my story. I was saving that for later. Telling your story in Group was a feature of the treatment, or so I’d been advised.

“No one,” he said. He was older and shorter than I, but gave the impression of being a taller man by his stance and manner. His shock of dark hair was untamed and he hadn’t shaved in days, but that seemed normal in a place like this where formality counted for little. His large hazel eyes darted back and forth compulsively and his expressive hands were jittery as he spoke in the short, quick bursts characteristic of an addict on edge. Or an addict who was no longer an addict, at least in theory. “It’s obvious.”

“But how...”

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” said Fred. Fred was one of the senior staff and he had just introduced me to the man I’d be sharing quarters with for the next thirty days. 

“I’m your counselor,” he’d told me, as if this were a summer camp for extremely damaged, over-grown children... which I suppose it was. The whole place had the makeshift atmosphere of camp. But I was used to camps. Much, much worse camps, in much, much worse places than North London, in a nondescript street just off the Bakerloo Line.

“What was your name again?” my new roommate asked, although I know he’d heard it perfectly well the first time.

“John Watson.” I extended my hand politely.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Watson,” he said, taking my proffered hand. His grip was firm and uncompromising. I thought I felt a spark of static electricity pass between us, which wasn’t peculiar seeing that the air in the facility was ridiculously dry. “And you can call me Holmes.”

“His name is Sherlock,” said Fred, annoyance permeating his voice. “We use only first names here. You know the rules, Sherlock.”

He ignored Fred as a lion might ignore a gnat. “Holmes. Please call me Holmes. And I’ll call you Watson, if you don’t mind.”

“You may call me John,” I said, my eyes shifting to look at our counselor. I didn’t want to break the rules on my first day. But I couldn’t help asking, “Is your Christian name really Sherlock?”

“I wouldn’t call it particularly Christian,” Holmes replied, finally betraying the hint of a grin. “But my given name is indeed Sherlock.”

“That’s a very unusual name.”

“Quite,” he said, raising an expressive eyebrow. “It means fair-headed one, which is entirely wrong, as you can see. My head is dark, as were all the members of my family. My brother is getting rather bald now, but the hair he has is dark as well. The Holmeses, evidently, have a queer sense of humor when it comes to names. My father’s name was Osric and my brother’s is Mycroft, so that gives you some idea.”

“I see,” I said, wondering how they ever survived at school with such names. “And that’s why you prefer to be called Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” interrupted the impatient Fred. “You know the rules. First names only. Now, John, Group is at three o’clock and dinner is served between five and six. Sherlock will show you to the dining room.”

“Yes, I suppose I will,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“So, I’ll leave you chaps to it,” said Fred. “By the way, doors are to be kept open at all times.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, glowering at Fred darkly. “No funny business, my dear Watson! They want us to get to it, without actually getting to it.”

Fred sighed very heavily. Holmes was obviously his cross to bear. “I’ll see you both at Group this afternoon. Remember -- three o’clock sharp.”

“Group,” said Holmes. “Oh joy. At three o’clock. Yes, I think we shall remember. We’re not raving idiots -- at least not yet. But give us sufficient time and we may surprise you.”

“You’ll be able to meet the others, John. I know they’ll make you feel welcome,” Fred said to me. But his gimlet eyes were fixed on Holmes. “Ta for now.”

“Insufferable ass,” Holmes muttered as Fred left the room. “You will soon learn that everyone here is either an ass or an idiot.” He paused. “But you seem an exception to the general rule.”

“I doubt that.” The room was small and there were two single beds. Since Holmes had flopped down and was now lounging on one, I shifted my dufflebag onto the other bed, sat down, and began unpacking the few belongings, minus my confiscated mouthwash and cologne, I had been permitted to bring with me. “If I weren’t both an idiot and an ass I wouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t know about that.” Holmes propped himself up on one elbow and studied me. “Addiction to prescription narcotics after two extremely severe wounds suffered in the service of one’s country does not signify someone who is either an ass or an idiot. It suggests a man who has endured much and fought a valiant fight. Many strong men have traveled a similar difficult path.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, eyeing him suspiciously. Had this strange man somehow seen my files? But how could that be? “And you knew I’d been in Afghanistan.”

“Elementary deduction,” he shrugged. “I only know a little about you, Watson, but when I’ve observed you longer I undoubtedly will be able to tell more.”

I stared at my new acquaintance with skeptical fascination. “And what else do you think you can deduce about me?”

“Not much,” he said casually. “Only that you are a medical doctor, trained as a surgeon. You were born in London, raised a Roman Catholic, and educated in Jesuit schools. You studied on the Continent as well, either in Germany or Austria, perhaps as part of your medical training. You joined the Army and were sent to Afghanistan where you were injured by a roadside bomb over a year ago. You sustained shrapnel wounds to both your left side and right leg that were not life-threatening, but bad enough to end your career as an Army surgeon. Your injuries left you in excruciating pain, which you numbed with narcotics you prescribed to yourself. You have hindered movement to your leg and your left arm and hand, which, along with your addiction, has rendered your very future as a physician in doubt. Your family is either dead or abroad and you have never been married...” He paused and gazed up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “...because you are a homosexual, which you generally kept to yourself during your Army service. You are currently unattached. Oh, and you are here as a voluntary patient. Unlike yours truly, who is here under lock and key, thanks to my dear brother, the esteemed Mycroft.” 

My mind was reeling from this dissertation. “Right on all counts. What are you? A mind reader?”

“No, my dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I am a detective. A consulting detective to be precise. And the best in the world, if I may be so egotistical to say so. I have solved cases for everyone from the inspectors at New Scotland Yard to our own Royal Family, from His Holiness the Pope to a high official in the Kremlin, as well as a number of billionaire industrialists and Hollywood film stars.”

“Then what on earth are you doing here?” I asked. “In rehab in a seedy suburb of North London?”

“That has a much simpler answer,” he replied. “The truth is that I’m an unrepentant heroin addict and if I don’t kick my habit soon I shall undoubtedly die.” He glanced at his watch and got off the bed. “As I feared, it’s almost time for Group. I imagine we had better show up there or Fred will come looking for us. Come, Watson! The game is afoot, as the Bard said. If we do not sing, then we will get no supper.”

And with that I followed my new-found friend out the door of our room and into my first day of drug rehab under the tutelage of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's roommate.

Chapter 2

 

In rehab Group Therapy is designed to offer support to the addict, to show what others in a similar situation have endured, and to provide empathetic ears to hear the addict’s personal tale of travail and torment.

Unless, of course, Sherlock Holmes is present. Then the entire endeavour is reduced to farce. Excellent farce, but farce nonetheless.

“Who wishes to offer an Affirmation this afternoon?” asked Fred, who, unfortunately, was the counselor conducting Group that first day. “Betty?”

A sad-eyed woman in a faded blue cardigan held up her hand. “I’m Betty and I’m addicted to prescription sedatives. I just want to say that I’m so very happy to be here and I’m glad to be getting help with my problem. Everyone here is so supportive and I’m happy to be here.” She paused, flustered. “I already said that. But I am happy to be here.”

“Perhaps if she threw out that ratty jumper she’d be even happier,” Holmes said under his breath. “Not to mention the shoes.” His eyes moved to the stained trainers on her admittedly large feet.

“Did you have something to say, Sherlock?” asked Fred. His face bore the long-suffering expression of an exhausted hound or a beleaguered social worker.

“My name is Holmes,” he corrected. “Certainly. I always have something to say.” And then he was silent.

“Well? What is it?” Fred barked.

“Oh, an Affirmation!” Holmes returned. “You mean you want me to tell everyone how happy I am to be here, like dear Betty. And how I look forward to being cured of what society deems bad for me so that I may join the grateful throng of drones who perpetually do what is appropriate. Is that what you want me to say?”

Fred stared at Holmes with genuine loathing. But he was a professional, I must give him that much. “You have been here three months, Sherlock. You know what an Affirmation is!”

“But my friend Watson is new. Perhaps he doesn’t know,” said Holmes. “I am merely apprising him of the situation to the best of my ability.”

I turned to Holmes. “Have you really been here three months?”

Holmes nodded. “Two months and twenty-six days, dear boy. I’d give you the exact number of hours, but I don’t want to take up any more of the Group’s valuable time.”

I was incredulous. “But three months in this place! I say!”

“I know,” Holmes said. “It is amazing. And in that time I have neither murdered anyone nor been murdered myself, which proves the supreme power of my self-control.”

“Gentlemen, please?” Fred begged. “It’s Affirmation time!”

“Of course, my good fellow,” Holmes replied. “The sooner we all finish with this tosh the sooner I can go out into the dirt pile they call a garden and have my afternoon cigarette. By the way, Watson, do you smoke?”

“Not anymore. I packed it in when I was in hospital.”

“Pity.”

“Gentlemen!” Fred was almost shouting.

“Yes?” said Holmes, as if nothing were amiss.

By now the entire Group was agitated and irritated. Poor Betty kept wiping her nose on the sleeve of her ratty cardigan and a burly black-haired man in a Metallica tee shirt glowered, his demeanor more than a tad intimidating.

“Are you going to give us an Affirmation or what?” the Metallica fan growled.

“Certainly, Mr. Carson,” Holmes replied.

“First names only, Sherlock!” said Fred.

“As you will – Arthur,” Holmes bowed to the burly man. “Much to my surprise and delight, I actually do have an Affirmation to make today.”

“Thank Christ!” muttered a grey-haired man who looked like a solicitor. “Now we can get on with this.”

“Yes,” continued Holmes. “I am happy and glad and grateful and all that Twelve-Step rot that Dr. Watson is my new roommate. He seems quite a decent and intelligent chap, unlike the insufferable lout with whom I was previously paired.” And he smiled disingenuously at Arthur, the Metallica fan.

Group plummeted downhill from there.

A long and excruciating hour later Fred dismissed the Group. Holmes immediately took my elbow and guided me from the room.

“Step swiftly,” he urged. “We are only a few paces in front of the ravenous pack.”

By a circuitous route we wended our way through the dingy hallways of the facility like a pair of schoolboys evading the headmaster. Holmes pushed open a steel door and we were outside. If this was indeed the garden, it more than lived up to his characterization of it as a dirt pile. In the corner two sagging potted palms sat forlornly.

Holmes pulled a dark French cigarette out of an engraved case and with it a gold-plated lighter. “Are you sure you don’t wish to join me?”

“No, thank you.” I did long for a cigarette, but having quit I felt I might as well attempt to make a success at something.

He lit the cigarette and drew in the smoke, a look of bliss on his quizzical face. “Ah! Better than food. Better than a holiday in the South of France. Almost better than...” He glanced at me. “No, nothing is better than sex. Or good sex. Or a hit of heroin. But both are forbidden in here, so I must make due with my smoke. They allow me four cigarettes a day. I have to appeal to the matron for them every morning.”

“That seems rather arbitrary.”

Holmes snorted. “I used to only be allowed two. The extras are for good behavior. Or somewhat good behavior. For me.”

“Yet you offered me one,” I pointed out.

“A habit of manners, my dear boy,” he said. “Besides, I wish to insinuate myself into your good graces. If you are going to lodge with me I want you as an ally and not an enemy.”

I smiled at him. “Like the Metallica fan in Group?”

Holmes coughed. “You mean the admirable Mr. Carson? We did not see eye-to-eye and so agreed to part company after a mere two days as confidants. He left in rather a hurry, hurling threats to – how did he so colorfully phrase it? Oh, yes – ‘kick my bleeding, cocksucking arse from here to Slough.’”

“That sounds unpleasant,” I concurred. “Why Slough?”

“No idea. Perhaps he had a brief Heavy Metal encounter there. Regardless of his choice of geography or his lamentable mixing of metaphors, Mr. Carson and I sadly parted ways.”

“And they moved me in.” I watched Holmes’ hands hold the cigarette. They were quite beautiful hands. Too beautiful. I forced myself to look away. “The members of the Group don’t seem partial to you.”

“That is putting it mildly,” Holmes laughed. “They revile me because I know when they’re lying. In Group you’re supposed to tell the truth, but they rarely do. For instance, when Betty first came here she told a story about her wonderful family and how supportive they were of her recovery. But it was all lies. Her husband left at least a year ago and her children are indifferent to her. She also has a harridan of a mother who screams at her during their weekly phone call and sends her religious tracts that implore her to accept Jesus Christ as her Personal Saviour or else be damned to Hell for her sins. She is in this dismal institution because she has nowhere else to go. And then there is Mr. Blake, the distinguished older gentleman.”

“The one who looks like a solicitor,” I put in.

“Yes,” said Holmes. “An excellent guess. Completely wrong, but still an excellent guess. He’s an engineer, but he does have the haircut of a suburban solicitor. However, if you observe his shirt you will note that...”

The steel door opened and Fred stood there. The headmaster had caught up to us.

“There you are, John,” he said. “I wondered where you had gotten to. You weren’t in your room or in the Recreation Area.”

“Recreation,” stated Holmes. “That means ping-pong and checkers. There’s also a television set permanently tuned to football or ‘EastEnders,’ depending on the time of day. I am told they once had a dart board until one of the inmates went after his counselor with one of the sharp implements. He missed. Pity, that. Do you play ping-pong, Watson?”

“Not since I was nine,” I admitted.

“John, may I speak with you?” Fred said in an urgent tone.

“Of course.” I turned to Holmes. “I’ll see you back at the room.”

“Our room,” he said. “And then to dinner.”

“Yes.” 

I followed Fred back into the facility. He led me down a corridor and into an office. There were two battered desks, some file cabinets, and a computer on a small table. The walls were hung with the usual decor of rehab -- photographed landscapes adorned with unironic bromides such as ‘A Smile Is the Best Gift,’ ‘Positive Thinking,’ and ‘Acceptance.’

“Please sit, John,” said Fred as he slipped into a chair repaired with silver tape. “I hate to be blunt, but I must warn you about Sherlock.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear this. That Holmes was the village pariah was already clear.

“He’s my roommate,” I said coolly. “And he seems a nice enough fellow.”

“He’s a heroin addict,” Fred replied flatly. Which seemed an odd thing to say seeing that the entire place was filled with addicts of one sort or another. And seeing that I was also there for addiction to hard narcotics. “And a very recalcitrant one to boot. He’s crafty and sly and thinks he’s better than anyone else here because...” Fred stopped. “But that’s no matter. He’s a bad influence. I wouldn’t have put you in with him except we are very full right now and the alternative was to put a younger and more impressionable patient in there.” Fred curled his lip. “Sherlock talks a good game, but he’s a failure, John. He’s been in rehab multiple times before and always backslid. He’s in now because the alternative was prison.”

That startled me. “Prison?”

“Yes, he was arrested with a large amount of drugs on his person, enough to brand him a dealer, although he claimed it was a supply for himself alone. His brother, who is a rather influential man, was able to get him admitted here instead. But this is his last chance. And he’ll remain here until he shapes up. However long it takes.”

“That’s tragic,” I said. “He seems a brilliant man.”

“He is a brilliant man,” Fred acknowledged. “He’s also a menace to himself and others. Don’t let him be a menace to you, John. I think you will be a success here. Don’t let Sherlock and his negative attitude sidetrack you.” Fred stood, ending the conversation. “It’s nice that we’ve had this little chat. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Thank you for the warning.”

I knew Fred had my best interests at heart, but as I left the office all I could think about was Sherlock Holmes and his last chance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For or against?

Chapter 3

 

And so I was left in an untenable position. 

On one side was Fred and the entire philosophy of Twelve-Step rehab.

On the other was Sherlock Holmes.

For the next three days I walked about in a muddle, unable to commit myself completely to the program, but also unwilling to allow myself to be taken over by the overwhelming personality of Holmes.

The other unfortunate mitigating factor was that I found him fascinating.

No, more than merely fascinating -- I was powerfully attracted to him. More powerfully than I had been to anyone in years. And that terrified me. The last thing I needed was to attach myself emotionally and physically to a man -- an addict -- even more damaged than myself.

In Group I hardly spoke. I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t know whose side to be on. There were things I wanted to share -- I had no one else to talk to about my fear of the future, no one else who might understand but others who were in the same position as I. Yet, if I joined in the discourse of Group, I knew Holmes would see it as a betrayal.

“It’s us against them, Watson,” he maintained one evening. They were showing a film in the Recreation Area, so Holmes and I had retreated to the corner of the forlorn garden, Holmes puffing his final cigarette of the day. “We’re besieged by the mob mentality. My brother thinks I can be broken down, but he misjudges the strength of my will. Mycroft has always discounted me. It’s because I’m the younger brother.”

“So am I,” I offered. “The baby of the family.”

“Ah!” said Holmes. “I doubt I was ever a baby. Mycroft -- possibly. He’s round and pink and cranky like a gigantic infant. But I believe I was born fully formed, adult and in the full power of my intellect, like Zeus.”

“I never thought Zeus was particularly known for his intellect,” I pointed out. “His virility, yes, but not intellect.”

“Athena, then,” said Holmes. “The goddess of wisdom and war -- an apt analogy.”

“You must have been a child once,” I commented, trying to picture him. A whip-thin boy with wild dark hair and eyes that missed nothing.

“Perhaps.” Holmes shrugged. “But I never felt like a child. I believe I was born old.”

“An old soul,” I said. “Born time and again.” I didn’t actually believe in reincarnation, but it somehow fit Holmes. He was in his thirties, but his expression often seemed both ancient and ageless.

“That may well be,” he agreed. “And you, my dear boy, are a young soul. I think even when you are an old man, you will seem like a green youth.”

I winced. That’s always been my curse -- my looks. In medical school and then during my hospital training it was difficult for the professors and resident doctors to take me seriously. Later, in the Army, I struggled to make myself a figure of authority. I even grew a moustache in an effort to appear older. “Youth isn’t always a blessing.”

“Ha, Watson!” he laughed. “Revisit that thought when you are facing forty.” 

I wanted to tell him so many things at that moment, confide in him as I never had to anyone else. But I was still afraid. Afraid to open up. Afraid to admit so many things...

The door creaked open. It was one of the counselors, George, a wizened former heroin addict with tattoos covering his skinny arms. “Fred says this area is off-limits during evening hours. And the film is over -- it’s time for Final Affirmations.” 

“Oh, goody.” Holmes took one last puff on his cigarette. “Avanté, my good man!”

“I’m not supposed to say this, but you’re a right berk,” George said sourly.

“I know,” Holmes returned. “I am a right berk. It’s part of my charm.”

During Affirmations I knew I had to say something. Anything. It wasn’t simply expected, it was required. Part of ‘working the program’ as they say in addict-speak. But I’d been fighting it. And Holmes had been urging me to fight it.

But...

“I have an Affirmation,” I said tentatively.

Fred raised an eyebrow, but then he nodded. I knew he was pleased. The entire group began nodding encouragement. All except Holmes, of course.

“I want to...” I began hesitantly. “To say that I’m glad I’m here.” It sounded so cliché, but I plunged ahead. “I need to be here. I couldn’t handle the pressure... or the pain all on my own and so I relied on the drugs until I couldn’t handle them either. But I have to do it now. So I want everyone’s help. I would be happy to have everyone’s help.”

“And I’m happy that John wants our help!” Betty gushed.

“I’m happy, too,” chimed in Arthur, the Heavy Metal fan.

“Oh, yes,” said Holmes. “We’re all so very, very happy for you, my dear boy.” He stared at me and my heart sank. Now I was one of the enemies.

After Final Affirmations the nurses passed out snacks. I took a packet of biscuits, but they were stale. I was going to toss them into the bin, but Arthur took them.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, pocketing them. “I’ll save ’em for later.”

I lingered in the Recreation Area, not wanting to go back to the room where Holmes was undoubtedly brooding over my traitorous conduct.

At eleven o’clock Fred, the ubiquitous sheepdog, began herding everyone back to their rooms.

“You’re making progress, John,” he said, patting my shoulder.

It was my bad shoulder, but I tried not to flinch.

“Stay away from Sherlock,” he continued. “I know he’s your roommate, but there are others here who have a positive outlook. Spend some time with George. He’s a good counselor and he’ll steer you right.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, really feeling like a quisling.

“I think you’ll do well,” said Fred. “You don’t have an addict’s personality.” He paused. “Unlike some people here. They dig in their heels and refuse what’s good for them. But you want to do well and please. You’re a doctor and that’s important. I think you could help others, John. You might do a world of good -- as long as you conform and learn to work the program.”

“Yes,” I said, turning away. “Conform and work the program.”

I wondered if Fred knew I was gay, if that information was in my medical records somewhere. Not that it should matter. Although it had always mattered. Mattered to my disapproving father and my disgusted brother. Mattered to my commanding officer in Afghanistan, who suggested I keep it to myself even though the official policy of the British Army was tolerance and acceptance.

It mattered to... others. 

But what mattered to me?

I was no longer certain.

Holmes was lying on the bed, on top of the blanket, in his shorts and a plain dark tee shirt. His silk dressing gown was crumpled on the floor. He often lay like that, gazing up at the cracked plaster ceiling, sometimes all night, as if in a daze. I wondered if he somehow slept with his eyes open.

I undressed silently and got into bed, turning out the lights so the night nurse wouldn’t come in and complain.

“You’re oh so glad,” he said in the dark. “Oh so happy.”

“It’s none of your business,” I snapped. I was angry with him and also angry at myself for giving a damn what he thought.

“Obviously,” Holmes sniffed. “Now you’re one of them -- JOHN.” He emphasized my name like it was an obscenity.

“Just be quiet!” I turned over, my back to him.

“Oh, I will. I certainly will. I only thought you were different. Above the common crowd. That you had a little spirit. An ability to think for yourself.” He was babbling now, his mouth going at a manic rate. “But I was wrong. Totally, utterly wrong. A fool to think that you...”

“Will you shut up!” I sat up and glared at him. “Don’t you ever shut up? Don’t you ever listen to anyone else? Or think about anyone but yourself? Apparently not!”

“They’ve gotten to you,” he said with disdain. “Ruined you. And I had such high hopes!”

“Hopes?” I said. “Hopes for what? That my recovery would fail, as yours has so many times? So you’d have someone to share your failure? A pitiful little acolyte you could watch go down in flames? Someone to feel superior to? You already feel superior to me and everyone else in the known universe! You’ve had so many chances and wasted them all. You’ve obviously a brilliant man, but you’re also a stupid one. Stupid and foolish because you insist on punishing yourself over and over again. I don’t understand why and I don’t really want to know why you wish to destroy yourself, but I don’t wish to be destroyed with you!” I stopped and covered my face with my hands, trying to steady myself. “I only have this month to get myself straight. If I don’t I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t get a position as a doctor if I’m an addict and my disability pension isn’t enough for me to live on. So what the hell am I supposed to do? You seem to belong to some rich and powerful family and can afford to fritter away your existence, always knowing that money will give you whatever you need -- drugs, rehab, whatever it is you require. I don’t have that luxury. I must succeed here or I might as well off myself! Not that anyone would give a fuck if I did!”

I lay back down and put the flat hospital pillow over my face. It smelled of lemon disinfectant, the pillowcase scratchy against my cheek.

Then I felt a touch. A hand stroking my hair.

“I would, John,” he whispered. “I give a fuck. I do, God help me! So please look at me! Please?”

I took the pillow off my face and looked at him.

“So do I,” I whispered. “I care about you. But I don’t know what to do about it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret.

Chapter 4

 

“Ah, yes, Watson,” said Holmes, pulling the covers over both of us. “This is more like it.”

“Wait!” I whispered. “The door is open and a nurse might walk in at any moment.”

“But they never do, do they?” Holmes reasoned. “They make their rounds of the floor to ascertain that all lights are extinguished and then they retreat to their break room to gossip, cruise the internet, eat the junk food that is forbidden to us, and otherwise ignore the inmates. I’ve been here long enough to know that the staff rarely deviate from their tedious routine.”

“But...”

“Silence, my dear boy.” Holmes pressed his fingers against my lips. “I know it will be difficult to stifle the sounds of ecstasy I am capable of coaxing out of a responsive partner, but at least make the attempt. If we hear anyone coming down the hallway, we shall simply desist until they advance.”

“Perhaps you have that kind of self-control,” I retorted hoarsely. “But I doubt I’ll be able to stop myself from...” I gasped as he took a firm hold of my cock. “Good God, Holmes! I can’t... I just... can’t!”

“Then don’t hold back, my dear fellow. Release yourself to the moment.” 

I didn’t have any choice at that point, so I did release myself to the moment – all over Holmes’ hand.

“I’m... so very sorry.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing to apologize for.” Holmes eased himself back on my pillow, more than pleased with himself. The narrow bed may have been crowded, but it had never before felt so comfortable. 

“But what if they catch us?”

“They won’t,” Holmes assured me. “And if they do...” He sniffed dismissively. “I’ll take all the blame, no need for you to fret. I can’t get into any more trouble here.” His arm curled underneath my neck in a possessive gesture. “If you want me to go back to my own bed...”

“No!” I replied too quickly. “I don’t want you go. I’m just... concerned.”

“Or afraid,” Holmes said. “Watson, don’t you ever long for the sensational? For the thrill of danger? Don’t you ever wish to step lightly on the edge of the abyss?”

I could feel Holmes’ heart beating, his breath hot on my cheek. “I’m no stranger to the abyss. That’s how I came to be here, remember? Afghanistan?”

Holmes nodded. “I haven’t forgotten. That’s heroism, my dear fellow, not thrill. You walked boldly into the mouth of battle because that was your duty, that was the calling of your honour. But to seek danger when you could seek safety, that’s a distinct kind of excitement.”

“You mean like taking illicit and dangerous drugs?” I didn’t want to sound judgmental, but I had to point out the obvious.

“It can be,” he admitted. “But I am talking about the chase – using one’s intellect, one’s cunning, one’s bodily strength, all of one’s faculties to face down the most perilous of villains, whether a blackmailer, a murderer... or a roving night nurse. Wait!” He squeezed my arm. “Hush!”

We both froze at the sound of footsteps on the ancient lino, but they passed by our door.

“The loo,” Holmes confirmed. “Too many cups of tea in the middle of the night.”

“What are we going to do now?” I asked, feeling a sudden chill.

“Oh, there’s a myriad of things we can manage, Watson, although this bed is rather small.”

I almost laughed out loud at Holmes’ singular focus. “I mean what are we going to do tomorrow? And the next day? And so forth?” I didn’t add what would we do until the day I left rehab – with Holmes staying behind in seemingly permanent custody?

“I concede that’s a slight problem. If the pervasive Fred or one of his lackeys gets wind that a ‘particular friendship’ has developed between us, he’s sure to move you elsewhere – probably in with Arthur or another equally odious individual.”

“They already suspect it. Fred warned me about you that day when he pulled me out of the garden and took me to his office. He said you were a bad influence.” I felt Holmes’ erection poking insistently against my side. “I see he was correct about that.”

“Of course,” said Holmes. “I’m a horrific influence. I assumed he’d gotten to you when you gave that ridiculous Affirmation.”

“But I meant it,” I confessed. “I am glad I came here. I know you hate everything to do with this place and its method of treatment, but my individual therapy sessions are helping me. And I don’t even mind Group. I feel I’m making progress. And I need to make progress in order to leave here as something other than a hopeless addict.”

“You are making progress,” he said, his voice somber. “And you’re not a hopeless addict, John. You never were. You’re a normal man caught up in wretched circumstances. You’ll succeed. I know you will. And you’ll leave here at the end of your month, which is swiftly approaching, and go back to your normal life.”

“I don’t have a normal life,” I returned. “I left so-called normal life behind long before I was wounded. My parents are dead and my brother and his family are in Australia. The friends I knew before I went into the Army aren’t the kind who would be of any help to a damaged man coming out of drug rehab. When I leave here...” I shrugged. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“And I am likely never to get out of here at all. Or else...” I felt his mouth against my neck. “Fred told you that they threatened me with prison, didn’t he?”

“Yes. But you won’t go there,” I insisted. “You’re too cunning. Too devious. Too... upper class.”

“And far too pretty,” he sighed. “My brother would be appalled at the smear on the great family name if I were actually incarcerated, so I doubt he’d allow it. Unfortunately, another part of him wants me to suffer some kind of punishment in order to teach me a nasty lesson about knowing my place. Mycroft thinks I’ve gotten way too big for my britches.”

“Your brother sounds a perfect swine,” I said, already hating him. 

“Oh, he certainly resembles a swine,” Holmes agreed. “However, he also knows I’d never survive any gaol in this country. I’ve put away far too many criminals who would love to get their hands on me in a place where there was no escape.”

That truly chilled me. “You’d be killed!”

“Quiet!” he urged in a strangled whisper. “Yes, I doubt I’d last a week. And Brother Mycroft knows it. So do the authorities at New Scotland Yard. They have no wish to see me in lock-up. I’m far too valuable to them, drugs or no drugs. But I also can’t stay in this infernal dump for the rest of my admittedly unnatural life.”

“So what, then?”

“I don’t know.” Holmes wrapped himself around me. “But for now we still have a few more minutes before I must return to my lonely cradle. We’ll have to steer clear of one another during the daylight hours. You must work your program like a dutiful boy, Watson. And I will continue to be the recalcitrant jester, a bad example to all and sundry. Then we should be left in peace after the lights are doused. Are we agreed?”

“Yes,” I said. “We’re in agreement.”

“Good,” said Holmes. “Now close your eyes.”

I did and soon fell asleep.

When the nurses awoke us the next morning, Holmes was safely in his own bed and I began to believe it had all been a dream – until Holmes gave me a wink as we marched out to breakfast.

“Steady on, Watson,” he whispered. “Steady on.”

And I braced myself for the days to come.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson graduates.

Chapter 5

 

From the time we left our room in the morning until lights out at eleven o’clock at night, Holmes and I barely spoke. We didn’t eat together, or walk together, or share private moments in the garden. In Group I sat apart from him and didn’t look his way unless he said something, which was rarely.

Only in the dark were we able to put aside our exile from each other, and even then furtively, briefly. And never the completed act – that would have been too risky, too fraught with the possibility of discovery.

Frankly, it was hellish.

But the irony of the situation was that I was making real progress in my treatment. My physical need for the narcotics had been broken and my psychological desire for them was waning. I could once again remember how I’d felt before I became addicted. My head was clear and my body surprisingly free of pain. During the time I’d anesthetized myself into oblivion, my leg and shoulder had been healing.

But time was also running down. My month at the facility was coming to an end.

It made me happy to contemplate my success at working the program, but at the same time I was thrown into despair at the knowledge of what I’d be leaving behind.

Each night after Holmes had returned to his bed and begun to snore, I turned over in my mind every possible scenario for my future. None of those futures featured my new friend and lover. I resigned myself to the understanding that this clandestine relationship was doomed to be sweet and short-lived. In all likelihood we would never even see each other after my release. And if we did the circumstances of our coming together could never be recaptured in the ordinary world, far from the hothouse atmosphere of rehab.

But in the quiet darkness that was for ourselves alone, we never addressed what might happen afterwards. Neither of us wished to sully what little time we had left.

Two nights before I was scheduled to be released I almost said something. I couldn’t contain myself any longer.

“Holmes... when I leave...”

“Hush, my dear boy,” he replied. “There’s no need. No need at all.”

“But...”

“No buts, John. No regrets. ‘If we shadows have offended, Think but this and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here, While these visions did appear, And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding than a dream.’”

I smiled at the revelation of Holmes as Puck, orchestrating rehab, both the inane and the sublime, for his own amusement.

All that night I dreamed of green and ancient forests, full of spirits.

The next day I was called into the office of the director of the facility. I’d only seen her once before, when I made the arrangements to be admitted. She was behind a large antique desk. Fred was sitting by her side, holding my file.

“Well, John,” she said, getting directly to the matter at hand. “You’re ready to leave us, I see.”

“Yes,” I said nervously.

“And do you have a place to stay upon release?” Her manner was friendly, but businesslike. “Or a position? We find that our successful graduates have a plan and a routine to return to – a job, a flat, supportive friends.”

I was at a loss for any of those. “I have my Army pension. I was on disability and before that in convalescent hospital. My few belongings are in storage. I suppose I’ll look for digs in the city... somewhere. And then try for a job. Perhaps the Army can advise me on something.”

She glanced over at Fred and he handed her my file, which she opened. “You were a surgeon.”

“Yes, but I can’t operate now. Not in my condition.”

“But you can do general medicine?” she said. “Check-ups, diagnosis, that sort of thing?”

“Of course.” What did she think? I’d been injured and addicted, but I wasn’t brain-damaged.

“I have a friend who runs a clinic in Earl’s Court,” she continued. “He can always use a competent doctor. The pay isn’t stellar, but it’ll keep you busy. And you’ll be practicing again. Would you be interested?”

I swallowed, unable to believe my luck. “Yes, I certainly would. I don’t care about the money. I only need to feel like a physician again.”

She shut my file and tossed it on the desk. “You will, John. Or should I say Dr. Watson? Fred, do you have anything to add?” 

“No,” Fred said proudly. “John’s made excellent progress.” He paused. “Once certain disreputable elements were... diminished.”

“Super, just super.” She stood and offered me her hand. “I’ll make the arrangements. Dr. Koenig will see that you find a place to live near the clinic. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Earl’s Court is chock-a-block with bedsits.”

I shook her hand, still a bit dazed. “Thanks ever so much. I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.” She smiled for the first time. “Congratulations, Doctor. I hope never to see you here again.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson back in the real world.

Chapter 6

 

That last night, after Final Affirmations, they had a small party for me in the Recreation Area. One of the nurses made a cake and there was Orange Squash and lemonade and it was rather jolly in a way. All the patients in my Group were there, minus Arthur, the Metallica fan, who had ‘graduated’ a few days before. But Betty, who was in long-term, was front and center, as well as Fred and the other counselors.

Everyone. Except Holmes.

He didn’t show up at dinner, or at evening Rec, or at Affirmations. And he didn’t appear at the party, either.

Not that I expected him to.

I ate a piece of cake and choked down my sugary drink and then begged off, having the excuse that I needed to pack. They all sincerely wished me well and I was touched. There had been no similar send-off for Arthur, who intimidated most people with whom he came into contact, or for another man who had left the week before. I realized, to my surprise, that they had a party because they liked me. They believed me to be a success and were truly happy for me.

I went back to my room. Holmes was already in bed, pretending to be asleep.

He’s a good actor, generally. He even told me he’d studied at RADA and spent a couple of seasons with a repertory company in Liverpool, doing Shakespeare, Shaw, and Panto, with him as the star, of course. Although it sounded like the kind of bragging story someone would make up, in Holmes’ case I believed him. He had that theatrical air about him, that over-the-top manner of the ham actor who is never off-stage, and that affected way of speaking that was either learned in Drama School or by growing up surrounded by aristocratic phonies – or both.

But I knew he wasn’t sleeping. For one, he wasn’t snoring. Although I’d told him he snored like a buzzsaw, he refused to believe it. “I would certainly know if I snored, my dear boy,” he sniffed. “And I don’t. So let that be the end of it.”

I could also feel his eyes on me, watching from his dim corner, as I packed and then undressed.

I waited for him to speak. But there was nothing. I turned out the light. He never came over to me. We both lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, as the minutes passed. Finally, I heard a soft snuffle and then a louder snore and knew there would be no final good-bye. I turned over and eventually fell asleep. In the morning, he was already gone from his bed when I woke. I took my bag, signed the release papers, and walked out into the bright, dangerous world.

***

I found digs just off the Cromwell Road and not far from Dr. Koenig’s clinic. The room was a basic bedsit, with the W.C. on the landing and half a window that overlooked the landlady’s back garden. But I didn’t really care because I spent almost every waking hour at the clinic. In truth, I buried myself in my work, which was exactly what I needed.

Dr. Koenig, a small and unruffled man, oversaw his domain with a gentle but resolute hand. He didn’t ask questions – he knew I’d just come from rehab, so I assume the director had given him all the background he needed to know – but put me directly to seeing patients. It no longer mattered to me that my days as a surgeon were in all likelihood over, I was a doctor again and that’s what was important.

The weeks went by and I heard nothing from Holmes. I wrote to him expecting no answer, which was what I received. Still, I used the letters as a confessional of sorts, pouring out my experiences at the clinic, my fears and hopes, and also my loneliness. I had anticipated many things after my release, but not the intensity of my solitude, which was one reason I spent so much time at work. But when I did return to my cheerless room, I was acutely aware of how alone I was in that vast city. I remembered the solace of the drugs, which had numbed my senses and put me into a languorous daze, but I found, to my relief, that the physical craving was gone. And I had no desire to go back.

I hadn’t spent too much time in Earl’s Court before I noticed that it was a very gay area. The Coleherne, a pub on a prominent corner, was bustling with men at all hours, giving the neighborhood the ambience of a more working class and less flamboyant Soho.

At first I ignored it, but as time passed it was harder to suppress the lure of sex. When I was on painkillers they also killed my desire – a desire which Holmes had awakened so keenly. And some days when I walked down the street by one of the pubs or coffeebars where the men spilled out onto the pavement I heard catcalls and come-ons – some embarrassingly explicit – as if I were some loose female available to all.

“Look at that fine arse!” yelled one muscular chap with a shaved head. “Speak to me, darlin’! I have something you’d like right ’ere!”

But I refused to look. Indeed, I was afraid to look. I’ve never been one for bars or camping it up or any other overt show. That wasn’t the way I’d been raised. Perhaps some might say I had lived much of my life in denial and they’d be correct. I didn’t come out to my father until shortly before his death and my brother only found out under less than fortunate circumstances. But I’d never denied my feelings to myself. I’d known my inclinations from an early age and accepted them, even if I was loathe to broadcast them.

Then one Friday night, facing a long, depressing weekend, I buried my inhibitions and entered the fray. I went to a pub I’d walked by a number of times. It seemed more low key than the ubiquitous Coleherne, the music not as loud and the shaved-headed contingent less obvious. I straightened my resolve, adjusted my tie, and plunged forward.

I immediately realized how out of touch I was with my fellow travelers, or indeed with contemporary fashion and mores in general. For one thing, no one else was wearing a tie. Many were not wearing shirts at all, or else the skimpiest of singlets. And they were young. Perhaps no younger than I, but they seemed of a different generation. With my plain white shirt, my brigade tie, and my officer’s moustache, I was a living anachronism. I winced to think that I had made a dreadful error.

And yet... within minutes I had three drinks set in front of me. A thirtyish fellow in a polo shirt came forward, smiling, but was elbowed aside by an aggressive boy who looked to be no older than twenty-one, who in turn was sent on his way by a tall man in an expensive leather jacket who took my arm and pulled me to a corner table.

“You’re new here,” he stated. His accent was Oxbridge sharp, with a superior manner to match.

“My first time,” I admitted. I bolted down one drink and began on the second.

He perused me. “Are you a priest or a vicar or something? You don’t look like you belong on this patch.”

“I just returned from a tour in Afghanistan.”

“Ah!” he nodded. “Army officer. I should have guessed by the tie. Rather too formal for this lot. We do get some young Guardsmen in here, but not a lot of active duty. I thought of doing stint a few years ago before all this muck in the Middle East. Rum business.” 

“I should say.”

I found him easy to talk to, although my mind kept returning to Holmes, wishing he were the one I was talking to, drinking with, and, after an hour or so of banter, going home with.

The man drove a wide German car and had a posh flat in South Kensington, all mods con, as they say. He seemed well-fixed, but I couldn’t say what it was he did. The place was decorated in that clean, generic way that says nothing whatsoever about the person who inhabits it.

Once we were in his flat, I felt uneasy. But he gave me no time to think – he had my kit off swiftly and deftly and before I knew it we were in the bedroom, getting down to the business at hand. He didn’t bother with questions such as top or bottom, or niceties such as what I might prefer or not prefer. He was in charge and that was that. Luckily, he believed in safe sex because I was so out of practice for the complete act that I didn’t even go out prepared, more fool I!

I must say that I got quite a workout that night, which was what I had been seeking. But it was all so emotionless, so mechanical, that afterwards I felt even more empty than I had before.

I tried to sleep beside this stranger, but it was impossible. He snored, but it was different than Holmes’ snoring. That difference wrenched at my heart. As soon as it was light outside I quietly dressed and fled the flat, beginning that long walk home. The Walk of Shame some call it. More like the Walk of Deflated Expectations. It was a hard trudge to my bedsit, but it gave me time to think. Halfway back I realized that I’d just had sex with a man and didn’t even know his name. That depressed me more than anything else.

I turned down onto my street from the Cromwell Road, wondering what in blazes I’d do with myself until Monday. And that’s when I saw him. Sitting on the front steps, smoking his pipe, his expression quizzical.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive, my dear boy,” said Holmes. “Good Lord, you look like hell. Bad night?”

“Ghastly,” I replied.

“Wasn’t the fellow any good at all?” he inquired, already knowing the answer.

“No.” I held my breath, scarcely able to believe he was really there.

“Then let us scamper up to your undoubtedly unworthy lodgings and remedy the situation,” he said, taking my hand. “And afterwards I have a proposition for you. Is that satisfactory?”

I laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. “More than satisfactory, you infuriating bastard!”

“Not technically true, but close enough,” Holmes returned. “Now get yourself upstairs. We have unfinished business that won’t wait another moment.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes returns.

Chapter 7

 

I’d just spent half the night shagging my head off and ordinarily the last thing I’d be thinking of at six o’clock in the morning was more of the same, but in this case...

It wasn’t more of the same. Not in the slightest.

The difference was being fucked by some nameless chap in a characterless flat, with no feeling, no meaning, and no future, and making love with...

Yes, that was it. The thing I’d been avoiding. The one thing I did not want to consider. But here it was, so obvious, so clear. At least it was clear to me, for I had no idea what Holmes’ feelings were, if, indeed, he had emotions like a normal human being.

I was in love with him. It was as simple and as complicated and as frustrating as that. 

Bloody love. 

Bloody hell!

“My dear boy,” he said afterwards as he lit yet another pipe. Now that he was out of rehab he’d exchanged cigarettes for a black briar which burned some potent and distinctive-smelling blend. “What’s that mark on your shoulder? I certainly did not make it.”

I turned to look and saw a fresh bruise slowly blooming just where my right shoulder met my neck. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I don’t care for your choice of playmates,” he upbraided me. I thought I even detected a note of disappointment in his tone. Or was it jealousy?

“It won’t happen again,” I assured him.

“Make no promises you cannot keep,” he returned. “That’s my credo.”

That was Holmes’ idea of pillow talk – pointed maxims and painful observations. If I was expecting romance of any kind, then I was in the wrong bed with the wrong man. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking of the future and I wasn’t hoping for anything beyond that moment.

But that moment... it was everything to me.

When I awoke it was past noon. Holmes was dressed and sitting in the corner of my tiny room, drinking coffee, smoking his pipe, and reading ‘The Times.’

“A late riser,” he commented. “But then I imagine you need your weekend rest. Come and have some coffee. I also took the liberty of helping myself to a slice of your bread, but I couldn’t find a toaster.”

“My landlady doesn’t allow one,” I confessed, pouring myself a cup. “Or a hot plate. The electric kettle is the only appliance permitted. I usually make myself a piece of toast when I get to the clinic. Or else I pick up a pastry or something on the walk over there.”

“Ah!” Holmes nodded. “And how is the clinic of the admirable Dr. Koenig? That is where you landed, isn’t it? He’s a former flame of the Director, so I assumed they wouldn’t hesitate to make use of your talents, not to mention your agreeable nature.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “The work is easy, but necessary. It occupies my mind and feeds my admittedly low self-esteem, not to mention providing the income that pays for this...” I paused and looked around the dingy bedsit. “Accommodation.”

“Quite,” Holmes sniffed. “Which brings me to the proposition I mentioned earlier this morning before our... encounter. I’ve taken a flat and I find there are two bedrooms. I believe it would be beneficial if I had a roommate of good character and stable habits to share it with me and help me with the rent.”

That sent up a gigantic red flag. “You don’t need help with the rent, Holmes. I don’t know where your money comes from, but I know you have it.” I pointed to his watch. “That’s a Patek Philippe worth God knows how many thousands of pounds. I used to know someone very well who wore one. So don’t deny it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of denying it,” Holmes said grandly. “It belonged to my grandfather. But you are correct – I don’t exactly need help in paying the rent.”

“Then tell me the truth,” I demanded. “Why do you want me to move in with you? I won’t deceive myself to think you’re madly in love with me.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Holmes made a face full of distaste. “That would be a disgraceful display of emotional excess.”

“Of course,” I replied, my heart breaking only slightly. “We wouldn’t want that. So you’d just like a convenient sexual outlet, is that it? And I’m obviously available at little trouble and no expense.”

Holmes looked horrified. “Good Lord, no, Watson! I...” He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “I’ve been released under the condition that someone responsible live with me. Brother Mycroft was going to hire a...” He winced. “A person to do the job. Some sort of detestable male nanny to watch my every waking move.”

“A minder,” I said. “That’s what they’re called. Minders.”

“Yes,” Holmes agreed. “A minder. That would be intolerable. I didn’t spend the past few months since you left rehab being a good boy and working their blasted program only to be placed in another pseudo-prison once I was officially released.”

Now it was clear. Well, at least he hadn’t jumped the wall and escaped. “So you suggested that I would be a good substitute for your minder.”

“You understand the situation perfectly. I knew you would, Watson.” He tendered an ingratiating smile. “It’s quite a nice flat and comes fully furnished. And I don’t expect you to act as some kind of – how did you put it? – convenient sexual outlet. I thought of you because you are one of the few people I’ve ever known who I’ve been drawn to immediately. I don’t know why, but it’s true. I feel an odd kinship with you. I suppose that’s what friendship means. I’ve rarely had a real friend – certainly not one since I left University and that was a long time ago indeed. But I feel you are such a friend, my dear boy. I offer you the room because I think it would benefit both of us to throw our lot together. If it doesn’t work out, you are under no obligation whatsoever. And if it does...” He shrugged.

I must have been mad even to consider it. I was in love with him and he was only using me. 

But...

What else was there for me? The clinic, my horrid room, and more pathetic nights like the one I’d spent with the Oxbridge snob. Yes, Holmes was an Oxbridge snob as well, but the difference was that I was in love with Holmes. And he knew it.

I sighed. “Can I see the flat first?”

He sat up straight, his eyes glittering with triumph. “Of course you may, my dear fellow. It’s a wonderful flat, actually. Centrally located. It’s in a block my brother owns. There is a building society on the ground floor, then offices, then some flats above. Ours is on the top, almost like a penthouse. It’s very private.”

“Your brother owns a block?” That made me uneasy. What on earth was I getting into? Who exactly was Holmes’ brother and how much was a block in Central London worth? I couldn’t even estimate it. “A block of buildings?”

“Mycroft owns gobs of real estate,” Holmes said dismissively. “Inherited it. Nothing to do with him at all. He’s a shockingly bad businessman, but he has people who do all of that for him. So you’ll come and see the flat?”

“Yes,” I said wearily. “I suppose it won’t hurt to take a glance.” 

Holmes jumped up, gleefully rubbing his hands together. “Capital! Get dressed and we’ll go over to see it posthaste!”

“All right.” I stood up and headed to the shower, but then I stopped. “Where did you say this building was again?” 

“I didn’t,” said Holmes. “But it’s in Baker Street. 221b, to be precise.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flat (B) at 221 Baker Street.

Chapter 8

 

Baker Street would never be my first choice for a long-term residence. The street is noisy and dirty, with cars and motorbikes shooting up and down at all hours, the local tube stop is crowded with tourists on their way to Madame Tussaud’s, and it was too far for me to walk to the clinic, adding expense and inconvenience to my daily commute.

On the other hand, the flat was literally a penthouse, high above street-level, so the noise was abated somewhat. It was also luxurious – furnished with antiques and Turkish carpets, centrally heated and air-conditioned, with a kitchen twice the size of my bedsit.

“You can decorate your room any way you wish,” said Holmes, showing me around. “If you don’t like this bed or the furniture, say the word and I’ll have it taken away.”

“This wardrobe,” I said, indicating an elaborate Early Victorian press. “Did you buy this?”

“Me?” Holmes looked shocked at the thought. “Buy a wardrobe? Good Lord, no! It’s probably something Mycroft brought up from the house in Sussex. That’s where most of these pieces came from. The old pile is crammed with tables and chairs and God only knows what. All you have to do is request something different and I’m sure it can be sent right up.”

I walked around, taking in the scene. It was too discombobulating to be offered all this on a silver platter. Or perhaps my skeptical nature was making me overly wary. “Did your brother live here?” The flat was clean, but had the dusty veneer of a site long out of use.

“A while ago,” said Holmes. “But he prefers rooms nearer his Club in St. James, so this has been empty for some time. He suggested I make use of it, since I can’t go back to my old digs.”

I turned around and looked at him closely. “Why not?”

Holmes shrugged. “A spot of bother with the landlady. And the neighbors. And the local constabulary. But that won’t be a problem here, my dear boy.”

We continued our tour, Holmes pointing out the expansive windows that faced east, the new showerhead in the bathroom, and the electric fireplace in the sitting room. I also noted a stack of unpacked boxes in his bedroom, spilling into the hallway.

“My files,” he explained. “For my cases. I also have a few simple items for some experiments I’ve been working on. I hope you don’t mind the occasional puff of smoke?”

“You’re not planning on burning the place down, are you?” I joked.

“Not intentionally,” he replied with a straight face.

So many things told me to turn down Holmes’ offer. I knew so little about him – and what I did know left me puzzled and apprehensive. That his brother was ridiculously wealthy was evident, as was the fact that Holmes was the black sheep of some ancient and eccentric family.

I’d been born and raised in Greenwich, to a family solidly suburban and middle class – doctors, solicitors, and teachers going back well into the Victorian Era. We were comfortably well-off, but money was never flaunted or discussed, so it was a shock when my father died and left only enough for my education, while my brother swiftly liquidated the family assets, grabbed his share, and bundled his wife and children off to Australia, where, except for rare visits to see her parents in Lewisham, they’ve remained ever since.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve lived my adult life in penury – far from it. The Army served me in good stead – at least until I was invalided out. And before that I had a brush with someone who had his share of the filthy lucre. More than his share, actually. And more than just a brush I must confess. It was my only real relationship – one that was as difficult and passionate and painful and ultimately bollocks-breaking as any I could imagine. Which made me leery of the kind of privilege Holmes was so nonchalantly presenting to me.

But the truth was that I wanted badly to live there. The thought of returning to Earl’s Court and the dark and musty bedsit was more than I could endure. 

And then there was Holmes himself. And the whole love disaster. I knew if I moved in with him I was leaving myself open to more grief and certain heartbreak.

Besides, I had so many questions I wanted answered. And Holmes was not the most forthcoming person in the world.

“Well?” He looked at me expectantly.

“If I am to live here with you... what am I to pay as my share?” I posed the obvious question. “Because I doubt I can afford it.”

“You’ll pay what I pay,” said Holmes. “Which is nothing. I told you Mycroft owns this building and the flat has been empty. He wants me to live somewhere secure and he wants me to live with someone who’ll keep an eye on me. I’ve consented to move here only if you’ll come in with me. I think it’s a capital arrangement, suitable to both parties – and agreeable to my brother, as well as the idiots at rehab who signed off on my release.”

“What about your Twelve-Step?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to attend meetings regularly?”

Holmes curled his lip in distaste. “Yes, yes. I’m supposed to go every day to some meeting place in a church hall around the corner from here. But what about you? Are you doing that?”

“Yes.” I didn’t even blink to admit the truth. “I’ve been going at least three times a week, as well as checking in with a substance abuse counselor who works at Dr. Koenig’s clinic. But I’ll go with you, even every day, if that’s what it takes.”

“You will?” Holmes’ face softened. “It might be easier with... with you going as well. To keep me company.”

“If that’s what you need, I will.” Without even thinking, I’d committed myself.

“Then it’s settled!” Holmes happily puffed up like a prize pigeon. “I’ll fetch you and your gear tomorrow at twelve!”

“And I can move into this room...” I stood in the doorway of the smaller bedroom. Perhaps we could simply be friends – with a congenial fuck only when it was warranted. No emotional attachments, no muss or fuss. That would be the best course of action for both of us. “With no strings attached?”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” Holmes pronounced. “No strings whatsoever. We shall be bosom companions, as gentlemen lodgers were in the Old Days. And nothing more, as you would wish.”

I held out my hand and we shook on it. And with that I became Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finale: Safe in Baker Street.
> 
> I have a full-length Victorian story in this Universe which I may begin posting later, if there is any interest.
> 
> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Gael

Chapter 9

 

That afternoon I informed my landlady that I had found alternate accommodations. She was a sour-faced harridan who took my money every week and ignored my simple requests, so I wouldn’t be missing either her or the seedy bedsit.

“You won’t find a cheaper or cleaner room in the West End,” she snorted at me. “Some places are full of riff-raff, ya know?”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Barker.” You old bitch. “But I’ll be moving tomorrow anyway.”

“No return on the deposit,” she snapped. “’Cause you gave me no notice.”

I could have argued the point, but I was so glad to be shed of the place that I let it go. I packed up my belongings in the same cartons I’d unpacked only a few months before – my possessions were still as meagre as they’d ever been. I’d passed into my thirties with little to show for myself beyond those boxes, a damaged body, and a failed military career. But perhaps things were looking up – a change of location, a change of fortune?

And Sherlock Holmes.

I pushed him out of my mind. I’d have to deal with my feelings for him later.

I rose late on Sunday, made myself a cup of strong tea, and put my boxes in order. Precisely at noon a black Jaguar screeched to a halt before my building and Holmes stepped out, attired in a tweed hacking jacket, leather driving gloves, and a flat cap like a character from the old ‘Avengers’ series. All that was missing was a rolled umbrella and a female sidekick in a black catsuit.

“Where on earth did you get that car?” I laughed. He’d taken me to see the flat in a taxi. 

“It’s mine,” said Holmes proudly. “It’s a 1966 XKE coupe. Belonged to my father.”

“I didn’t know you could drive,” I commented.

Holmes squared his shoulders. “I don’t like to drive in the city. It hinders my freedom of movement. I thought I’d break it out of the garage when I came to fetch you. To carry all your gear and tackle. So much better than a cab.”

I pointed out that the Jag had no rear seat and a boot that would take a single suitcase and not much else.

“Oh,” said Holmes. “That’s rather a sticky one. Seems I had better call for a taxi after all. We can put your things in the cab and you can ride to the flat with me. Voila! Problem solved!” 

We waited for the taxi to arrive, then the two of us carried down my possessions. The landlady, her son, and daughter-in-law came out to watch the fun. They especially took note of Holmes, his attire, and the Jaguar.

“I thought you was a respectable bloke,” the woman sneered. “Gone all hours you were. Now I know why.”

“I told you, Mrs. Barker,” I said, reining in my sorely tested temper. “I’m a doctor.”

“Likely story,” she retorted. “Found a sugar daddy, have you? Watch out for that one. He looks right barmy.”

“I am that, madam,” said Holmes, tipping his cap to her. “I am right barmy. I’m planning to take young John here back to my dungeon and do unspeakable things to him ¬– for a negotiated fee, of course.”

The son and daughter-in-law had a considerable laugh at that, but Mrs. Barker scowled fiercely at me and even more fiercely at Holmes.

“Delightful woman,” said Holmes as we roared off, the cab attempting to follow. “The hours must fly by with her in the room.”

“Quite.” I held on for dear life as we rocketed through London. Holmes was without a doubt the worst driver I’d ever known.

“Wait until we take to the open road, Watson,” said Holmes as he breezed through another red light. “We can motor down to Sussex and spend a weekend at the house. Mycroft is never there, so we won’t be bothered.”

“You’ve mentioned this house before,” I gulped, closing my eyes and crossing myself. “Could you slow down a tad?”

“Certainly, my dear boy.” He eased off as we came into lower Baker Street. “It’s only the old family pile. Sherringford Hall. But you might find it amusing.”

“Sherringford Hall?” I’d been there as a lad on a school trip. It was one of the great houses in the south of England. The seat of the Earls of Sherringford. “But... your brother?” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh,” said Holmes. “Did I neglect to mention that Mycroft is the present Earl?”

“Yes,” I said. “You rather did.” The mystery of Holmes’ money was now solved. The Earl of Sherringford owned half of London, or so it seemed. He was also a major power in Her Majesty’s government. That’s how he’d gotten his brother into rehab instead of gaol. Another mystery solved.

“Nothing to do with me,” he dismissed. “I’m still plain old Sherlock Holmes. Or the Honourable Sherlock Holmes. Some tosh like that. Titles might once have served a purpose in society, but they are not rational in this day and age.”

We dodged down an alleyway off Baker Street and into a secure garage where Holmes parked the Jag. The cab was waiting in front of the building. Holmes and I and the cabbie, tempted by a handful of ten pound notes, carried up my things.

“There it is,” said Holmes, surveying my new room with satisfaction. “Snug as a bug. I know you’ll be comfortable here, my dear fellow.”

“I’m certain I shall be,” I replied.

I looked at him.

And he looked at me.

“John,” he said, reaching out his hand to touch my face.

We were in Holmes’ bed moments later.

I never slept in that smaller bedroom a single night for the remainder of our tenure at 221b Baker Street.

 

FIN

Graphic by futbolerka


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